I’ve been houseless for the last two weeks. Besides that, I’ve been going through it in other ways. I miss my daughter, and feel fucked up at the ways in which reproductive injustice intersects with capitalism and anti-blackness. A white lady can hire me to work in her home, and afford to pay two different Black womyn — one to be the nanny to her children, and me, to make sure her home is sparkly clean. But I’ve only seen my child two times in the last twelve months. I was evicted in February of this year, and have been experiencing housing insecurity since then. And have been compelled to make the choice between visiting my daughter as regularly as I want to, and using my resources for basic everyday survival — food and housing.
When my struggle to survive included engaging in acts that are deemed non-legal by the state, I was criminalized, and became yet another Black person caught up in the injustice system. But I’m just an erratic, cantankerous, belligerent, angry, unreasonable, uppity, self-righteous ass Black bitch when I talk about the real ways that interpersonal anti-Black racism is NOT unrelated to institutional manifestations.
Even in supposedly radical spaces, who really cares about Black feelings, hurt, or suffering? How dare Black folks be complex and layered. How dare Black folks hurt, and talk about our pain? How dare Black folks break out of the roles (mammy/jezebel/buck/etc.) that people impose on us? How dare we have our own shit going on under the surface? How dare we NEED care? After all, we’re supposed to infinitely be fixin’ and taking care of everybody else’s shit.